“You are mistaken, Madge,” said Hilda.  “I was in New York for several weeks last winter, staying with Aunt Anna; but you were in Washington at the time.”

“Oh, but I heard of you!” cried Madge, archly.  “I heard how the whole Hill was at Miss Grahame’s feet, and how Bobby Van Sittart nearly went into a decline because she would not smile on his suit.  I heard—­”

“I think you heard a great deal of nonsense, Madge!” said Hilda with some asperity.  “Come! you would like to see something of the island before the steamer comes to take you back.  I will get the canoe and take you for a paddle.”

Madge recoiled with a pretty shriek.

“Oh, horrors!  Trust myself in a horrid tippy canoe, with a girl?  Never, my dear!  I value my life too highly, I assure you.  But there is a sailboat!  I dote on sailing, and I am sure Professor Merryweather is a superb sailor.”

Professor Merryweather rose with a smile, and would be charmed to take the young ladies out in the Keewaydin.

“Oh, but, Captain Roger, you were going out fishing!” cried Hildegarde, her cheeks crimson with mortification.

Roger looked at her with a twinkle.  “The fishes are not expected to migrate just yet, and there is a good wind for sailing.  Pray come, Miss Grahame!”

Madge was already on her feet, fluttering with coquetry; and Hildegarde, after a despairing glance at Mrs. Merryweather, saw that she could do nothing but lead the way to the wharf.

“Won’t you come, Bell?” she asked wistfully; but Bell was cruel, and said she must attend to her cooking; adding for the special edification of the stranger that she had the floor to scrub and the fish to clean.  In silence Hildegarde walked down the wharf; she was thoroughly upset, and turning to look back to the house, it did not restore her composure to see Obadiah and Ferguson standing on their hands on the piazza, waving their feet in the air with every demonstration of frantic joy.

The little rowboat was unmoored, and a few quick strokes brought them alongside the Keewaydin.  Hildegarde had never thought it could be anything but pleasure to her to board this beloved vessel, but she found herself now wishing that sailing had never been invented.  She glanced timidly at Roger, but there was no expression in his face as he handed Madge on board, and replied gravely to her lively questions.  Madge was treading on air.  They had told her at Pollock’s Cove that she would not be able to get a word out of the handsome young professor; and here he was at her side, perhaps—­who knew?—­soon to be at her feet.  A little absent-minded, to be sure, but they were often that way when a strong impression had been made.  As for poor Hilda, it was really lamentable to see how utterly she had lost her savoir-faire, living in the wilderness.  Here was this charming man, really with the bel air, and distinguished in some way or other, and she was as mute as a fish.  Really, it was a charity to come and see her.